


Checkmate

by Morwynn



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Developing Relationship, Dorks in Love, F/M, Overthinking, Puns & Word Play, Secret Relationship, Sex, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 10:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15459681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morwynn/pseuds/Morwynn
Summary: Reflecting on Moiraine in Book 6, Thom said, “Often, you don’t know whether a woman is friend, enemy, or lover until it is too late. Sometimes, she is all three.” Moiraine and Thom only had a few months together in Tear (Book 4) until their enthusiastic reunion at the Tower of Ghenjei almost a year later. They must have been very busy indeed behind closed doors for her to make such an impression on him during their short time together in the Stone.***“No attachments, Thom had sternly told himself, and no Aes Sedai strings. But there were so many things to do with no strings attached… And if thisweresome scheme to sink her Aes Sedai hooks into him…well, there were worse ways to have an Aes Sedai tie a string to a man. She could tie his string right to the headboard.”





	Checkmate

**Author's Note:**

> This story appears as part of a series, best enjoyed in the following order (not that there are beginnings or endings to the Wheel of Time): A Good Start, Checkmate, and An Earnest Proposal at the End of the World. Did Moiraine’s proposal to Thom surprise you as much as it did Mat? These fics will show you the backstory.

Moiraine’s notes spread across the cozy sitting room’s dark vine-carved table, alongside her books, inkwell, pen, teapot, tea cup, some lit candles, and one of the cats, an orange tabby, that kept the Stone of Tear free of mice. Perhaps, she thought wryly, she could get an article or two out in the Tar Valon Press when this business was all over and done with. She was not sure there had been an original thought on the Karaethon Cycle since Tamdrin Sedshaw’s seminary work almost a century ago, but with Callandor in the Dragon’s hand, new interpretations of the old prophecies sprang off the page nearly nightly. _Publish or perish,_ the motto of the scholars of the White Tower, flashed through her mind. The latter looked increasingly likely for them all.

A tattered, fourth-century manuscript describing a trip through that redstone doorway lay before her, her eyes barely focusing on the archaic cursive as the candles burned down, their flames buffeted by a breeze carrying the promise of a storm. The sun had set, full dark quickly approaching, and she realized she had been too absorbed in her studies to notice until now. When Lan kept near, he made sure to light stand lamps or fresh candles for her to read by, but he seemed increasingly preoccupied lately and now it was too dark to see. She sighed and admitted it was time to pack up for the night. Placing bookmarks in the books and gently closing the fragile folios, she stacked them in towering piles toward the edge of the table. Quickly dried with a small weave of Air, her notes made a tidy stack on top. Settling back into her chair with a fresh Sea Folk porcelain cup of hot tea, she waited, breathing in the fortifying steam of the Tremalking black. She expected Thom any moment.

They had never exactly made formal plans to meet. After long days dealing with Darkfriends, High Lords, and the Dragon Reborn, she had begun spending more of her evenings in the small sitting room with the big window near her apartments, whether to speak with Egwene and Elayne—and occasionally Nynaeve—or to take advantage of this unprecedented access to rare books and manuscripts from Tear’s royal library and archive. The ones Rand had not hoarded in his rooms far on the opposite side of the Stone, anyway. The more time she had spent there, the more often Thom had begun appearing for late-night conversation; the more he had begun appearing, the more she had found herself there at the time he usually sidled into her study. 

He required no espionage to ascertain her whereabouts--although they both received reports on each other from their respective networks, of course. It was simply a practical room for small meetings and studying without distraction. Spending more time there made sense, that was all. But it pleased her that he had noticed the schedule she had devised for herself independently and accomodated himself accordingly. 

She resented how much she enjoyed the scattered minutes and hours they spent together. The Stone of Tear had fallen. The Dragon Reborn wielded Callandor. Only a fool would think it was an appropriate time for exchanging banter in an empty corridor or sharing a pot of tea in a remote little sitting room. When Min had first told her she would marry Thom, she half-wondered if their union would not be in service of some larger Daes Dae’mar plot. At the time, that had seemed a more likely scenario than a genuine love match, yet here she sat, kindling genuine sentiment toward the bardic fool at the precise moment her work mattered most. But as Rand’s increasing recalcitrance spiked her anxiety into panic, Thom’s blade-sharp wit still managed to surprise and delight her. The extent to which she had tried not to fall for him as quickly as the Stone had fallen to the Dragon only stood as proof that she was indeed falling for him as quickly as the High Lords had begun plotting the Dragon’s assassination. The Light take the blasted gleeman, what was his endgame in seeking her out for leisure time, anyhow? she wondered irritably, and not for the first time. 

No doubt because he aimed to be Rand’s assistant in the hidden maneuvering necessary to maintain rule in Tear. Maneuvering like that came easy as breathing to Thom and had never even occurred to a simple farm boy from the Two Rivers. But if his aim were to support Rand, then surely Thom saw the value in having her as Rand’s primary, even public, adviser. As distrustful as Thom could be of Aes Sedai on a personal level, the man possessed the brains to know that some situations demanded their clout and expertise. Situations like shepherding a sheepherder-turned-Dragon Reborn toward his destiny. So if his aim were not to displace her—which she did not discount entirely, just demoted to unlikely— then more likely he must be attempting to discover the entirety of her plans to carry back to Rand. She had strategic reasons for unveiling those plans bit by bit. Thom would not change that. He had not even brought up politics once yet, to lull her into a fall sense of security, no doubt, but she would be prepared to stonewall placidly when the time came.

Although--in the interest of considering all the data at hand-- she could not discount the fact that the last time they conversed, he had told her that she looked “lovely.” Well. What man did not think so of her. His claim was not a particularly original observation, after all, or information of which she had not been previously aware.

Absently, she wound some strands of hair around her fingers, channeling thin streams of Fire and Air to refresh wayward curls that had begun to frizz in the humidity of the coming storm. She could not discount his apparent interest in her, but neither would she permit herself to read too much into it, of course. While he might wish to marry her one day, she would be surprised if that day were today. With both of them scheming against one another through their schemes against the Tairen nobles, the timing seemed hopelessly wrong. But perhaps she was not the only one capable of harboring romantic feelings toward her Daes Dae’mar rival. She would suss out his motives soon enough. She weighed the likelihood that his interest in her company served an ulterior motive and attributed the attendant sinking feeling in her middle to the fact that she had eaten very lightly today--the task of reminding her to eat typically fell to her absent Warder too. Wasting away alone in the dark-- _Nynaeve would be thrilled,_ she laughed to herself.

In the meantime, exhaustion gnawed at her. Her thoughts increasingly came as though through a haze of sleeplessness, her emotions frayed and raw. Her entire life’s work, not to mention the fate of the entire world, centered on getting everything right. So much had been set into motion so fast; Siuan sat so far away and communication with her proved risky and difficult. Moiraine felt so very alone, and her task loomed over her. Succeed and save the world; fail and destroy it. Her fear of failure made her press Rand too hard, yet she could not bring herself to lessen up on him. The stakes were too high. She would press him twice as hard tomorrow, whatever it took to steer him right. She gripped her teacup until her knuckles turned white.

She would be of no help to anyone if she were too tired to think straight. Her work was of the utmost importance, but the bedrock of good work was good rest. Taking good care of herself so that she could carry out the work also needed to be a part of her plan. Too easily she neglected this part--not that she would ever admit it to her mother hen of a Warder-- but it made sense. If tea and verbal sport with Thom Merrilin cheered her and built back up her mental reserves, then it ultimately served her big picture plans and goals. Yes, it was both fruitful and strategic. She was glad to have sorted that out.

Rest of any sort served as a strategic choice, but keeping Thom close under her watch comprised another prong of her plans, especially since she grew increasingly concerned about the reliability of her eyes and ears in the servants’ quarters. Were she a servant, to whom would she give her ultimate allegiance, the distant Aes Sedai noblewoman, or the friendly gleeman next door? Taking up residence in the servants’ quarters would never have entered her mind, and, frankly, she never could have pulled it off. Burn the man, but he was skilled at playing the Game, and relied on a very different skill set than she did, making him a more difficult opponent to unseat than most. Only a little more difficult. An interesting challenge among the tedious predictability of the Tear nobles’ amateurish scheming. And she had several ideas for how to keep him close. Her fingers loosened their grip on the Sea Folk cup.

The blue stone of Moiraine’s kesiera glowed faintly and the corner of her lips quirked up in what passed as an Aes Sedai smile. She could make out faint footsteps still a ways off down the hallway. She turned and expectantly faced the door. Thom did not know how she always knew of his nearly-silent approach, and she liked how it unsettled him. 

As she anticipated his approach, the painful pleasure of intrusive-- though not entirely unwelcome-- thoughts briefly seized upon her, not for the first time since Min first planted the notion in her mind those months ago. An unbidden flash of him shutting the door, rounding the table, grabbing her by the hair and bending her-- 

“Hello, Thom,” she said serenely as he appeared in the doorway, her face as calm and unreadable as ever. The ocean breeze from the picture window gently stirred her dark hair, and the dim light of the waning candles cast a soft glow on her face. She wore a small smile, and Thom noted that, as usual, she had already poured him a cup of tea, which was still steaming. Her ability to predict his approach was vaguely unsettling.

He had no idea what such a fine specimen of a woman would want in the company of an old fool gleeman, but if she had wanted him to leave her alone, he suspected that she would find ways to make it clear. Maybe she was keeping him close because she suspected his meddling with the High Lords. She would have no proof, of course, but if she suspected, the logical step was to watch him closer. Surely she could see that he was only helping Rand and would allow him to keep at it. Yet somehow that good sense didn’t quite sound like the course of action an Aes Sedai would take. And he didn’t really have a good grasp on what her plans for Rand even were; all he knew about Aes Sedai and men who could channel entailed gentling and a slow death. But if she wanted him gentled, why hadn’t she done it yet? And if she didn’t want him gentled, what _did_ she want? he wondered, not for the first time. He would be ready and waiting when she made a move. 

And in the meantime, why not enjoy the view? Certainly his other marks in the Great Game were harder on his old eyes. Alteima’s pale, beady eyes couldn’t take in a dinner menu, let alone a man’s soul, even if she squinted. The clammy paste of Tedosian’s flesh certainly did not inspire one to stroke it like the smooth ivory of a fine pipe. And, voluptuous as his corpulent form was, Carleon couldn’t possibly hope to fill out a dark blue silk riding dress so superbly. 

“Good evening, Moiraine Sedai,” he said, nodding to her and then to the cat that had jumped down and scampered out the door as he entered. Cats seemed to like her as much as she liked them; they appeared to follow her around the Stone keeping her company. Probably bonding over being mysterious and infuriatingly underfoot all the time. Thom crossed the room and he felt her appraising eyes follow him as he walked past, taking in his colorful gleeman’s cloak billowing behind him, his simple white shirt hanging just loose enough to hint at the lean, muscular form beneath, his tight breeches doing more than hinting. He caught her eyes darting up to meet his once more as he rounded the table and settled into the chair beside hers, both of dark, elaborately carved wood.

Thom accepted his porcelain cup of black tea, tipping it toward her before taking a sip. They fell into a light conversation, pointedly avoiding, as always, direct discussions of the fraught political atmosphere, the perennial problem of Rand al’Thor, or even what they had done that day. She seemed glad to see him, but he could tell she was tired. She masked it well, but the way she actually sat in her chair like an ordinary person, acknowledging that it had a back to it made for the human form to recline against, tipped him off. Usually she sat up perfectly straight, straight as one of those dancers for the Cairhienin court, whose stiffly graceful movements made the most difficult of moves look effortless. If she made use of the back of her chair, she had had a long day indeed. 

Thom had begun seeking her out for company because, well, what man wouldn’t want to spend his evenings with a lovely, quick-witted woman who laughed at his quips? But there was something about a strong and independent woman worn down by the cares of the world that stirred something in him. He wanted to ease her burden somehow, to lighten her mood, perhaps, or assassinate her political enemies. But he had been down that road long ago in Andor and had learned his lesson.

Blood and ashes, but he had a type.

Fool! He admonished himself, but the thoughts didn’t clear. Tonight, she wore a royal blue gown inspired by the Tairen style, but the wide neck went up nearly to her collar bone, and it opened almost, but not quite, to the tops of her shoulders. Tairen women revealed considerably more bust and shoulders in their dress. Still, it took more than the immaculate tailoring to make that dress look like a map of the Erinin curving around Tar Valon. And one would probably only need to unbutton the top button to be able to remove the garment entirely. Her hair framed her face in soft, chestnut waves, only just long enough to stay modest if that top button should happen to come undone. Idle speculation, of course. Idle speculation couldn’t be disrespectful to Dena’s memory, he reasoned. Short, pale, and dark-haired, unmistakably Cairhienin, Moiraine couldn't help but remind him of Dena. But first Dena had reminded him of Moiraine. He pushed the thoughts down. 

At least he wasn’t lusting after someone old enough to be his grandmother. Over the scant weeks they had spent together, Thom believed he had finally pieced together her age. Hardly fool enough to explicitly discuss age with an Aes Sedai, he had instead filed away tiny scraps of clues since he had first met her. The woman guarded information like Borderlanders guarded the Blight, but it had unsettled him to think he might be talking to someone a hundred years his elder. Thankfully, that did not appear to be the case: from what he had pieced together, he put her age at forty-two. That actually made her young enough to be his daughter, inverting the age dynamic Thom had been wary of. For whatever reason, younger women fawned all over him, and, as flattering as it was on one level, Thom took care not to take advantage. He snorted to himself. Regardless of her age, there was precious little worry over taking advantage of an Aes Sedai. No, he was still the one that needed to be wary here.

His apprehension at the abstract threat of an Aes Sedai softened as he regarded the real woman in front of him. She sipped her tea primly, her little finger extended ever so slightly in the genteel manner he found so endearing. For all the queenlike strength and toughness she projected, he had observed, a part of her—neither as small nor as deep down as she would likely admit—remained a princess at heart: a lover of classic literature, epic poetry, court dancing, however much she tried to distance herself from that past. He bet it would bother her to point this out. He made a mental note to point it out. 

In any case, when they had travelled together with the Borderlander and the Two Rivers folk, it was Thom and Moiraine’s more elite tastes that had drawn them together initially. After Baerlon, she had rather suddenly taken an interest in his interpretation of the shifting political landscape, but that subject had quickly evolved into lively conversation on a dozen different topics. In those early days, he had trouble reconciling how the monstrous Aes Sedai towering over the city wall last night could be the same woman meeting his obscure Second Age playwright reference with the most charming silvery laugh that morning. After that, he would find her after her sessions with Egwene and, until she drifted to sleep, engaged her in quiet, late-night fireside discussions of literature and politics. And Cairhienin wordplay.

Known as Daes Palatu’mar, or the Great Word Game, Cairhienin wordplay had a rather notorious, even cringeworthy reputation in other parts of the land, but like Daes Dae’mar, the Cairhienin took it seriously. Reserved to the point of repression, Cairhienin folk embedded deep significance into the smallest of words and gestures, even—especially—in their courtship rituals, which their prudish culture had managed to whittle down to the most obscure and inoffensive of behaviors.

There were two ways to win at Daes Palatu’mar: take turns exchanging a play on the same word or theme until the other person could not think of another play, or be the first person to see an opportunity for a play on words and say it out loud before the other person could. If one Cairhienin fancied another, there were elaborate strategies for setting up opportunities for Daes Palatu’mar in which you let the other person win, but subtlety was required. Cairhienin loved to win, but they took no pleasure in false victories. Sometimes in Daes-Palatu’mar, losing could be even sweeter than winning, though, as the price of defeat could mean submitting to the desires of the victor. For the Cairhienin, that probably meant a chaste kiss on the hand. 

Now, Thom enjoyed a bit of verbal sparring, to be sure, but it was hardly his entire idea of courtship. Well, perhaps the Word Game served well enough as an opening gambit, but to Thom’s mind, it merely worked as an opener to additional expressions of affection that went well beyond hand-kissing. If Moiraine perceived their bouts of Daes Palatu’mar as flirtation, she gave no indication, although she certainly seemed to enjoy them. That was enough for Thom. Although he did wonder--not that he was out looking for some kind of entanglement. The last thing he wanted or needed was to get caught up in some scheme with some woman. Least of all a Cairhienin. Very least of all an Aes Sedai! No attachments, he had sternly told himself, and no Aes Sedai strings. But there were so many things to do with no strings attached…

“I spoke to the chief cook today,” Thom forged ahead, laying his foundation, seeing where it would lead. “About when Mat and I had gotten a scolding for taking some ale in one of the audience rooms.” 

Moiraine made a mental note about where Mat had gone, and when, and with whom, and what he had done there. Such a little treasure trove of information from such a simple, innocent conversation. She nodded for him to go on. 

Thom continued, “Apparently, even though there’s no formal rule against drinking in the audience rooms, some of the older servants still enforce that custom. I guess you could say it was not—” Thom began.

“Set in stone?” she supplied, as Thom made the same terrible play on words at nearly the same time. He gave her an impish grin as if he had incontrovertibly said it first. 

“I said it first, and you know I speak true when I say that,” she asserted calmly, taking a sip of tea.

“That only means you _believe_ you said it first, which hardly constitutes objective truth,” he replied, waving his hand dismissively and calibrating his tone to the perfect levels of invalidation and condescension--just the right amount to needle her. She detested not being taken seriously, and she _truly_ detested losing. 

One of her eyebrows twitched and Thom tallied another victory. She might wear a mask of calm, but Thom had taken great pleasure in learning all of her little signs and tells. Her reactions helped him gauge the subtle shifts in the volatile political situation by how she responded to news of various nobles’ schemes. But mostly it was fun to get what passed for a rise out of her. 

“I believe it because I heard my voice speak the words while you still struggled to finish your sentence. Perhaps you are so accustomed to Common Chant you are reduced to speaking more slowly in general,” she parried smoothly, unsure why her flirtatious thoughts only seemed to translate into mockery. When she wanted to make men trip over their own feet to do her bidding, it was child’s play; genuine attraction continued to mystify her. She could not bring herself to regret the retort, however; it needled his sore spot with surgical precision. 

Thom chuckled, at himself as much as at her rankling rejoinder. For company, he could have his pick from the flock of wide-eyed young maids who eagerly trailed him all day, giggling at his happy songs and sighing at his sad ones, fawning over him, shouting for more. One, a blue-eyed beauty who could not have been more than twenty, fed him contraband grapes she had tucked into a fold of her apron just for him. But why spend the night being worshipped in a serving maid’s bunk when he could receive yet another fully-clothed tongue-lashing from a woman who had never touched more than his temples? 

He supposed he really did have a type; she could stimulate his mind all night long. He had already charted his next move, pulling out one of the subjects he knew was guaranteed to rile her. 

“Bold move, bring up Chants again after what happened last time. Whatever the Chant, I still say a story always amounts to more than a historical source. No matter what you try to tell me, you can’t confine stories to mere history.” 

_Mere history?_ Moiraine took a steadying breath--partly in mock exasperation, and partly in real. He knew how this debate needled her. Why in the Light he argued history with someone who had spent her whole life rigorously studying the subject was beyond her, but if he wanted to lose to her again and again, she would not induce him to stop.

“Do not even think of commencing a discussion on this topic unless you are prepared to listen at length,” she replied. “And you must provide me with something stronger than this tea if you wish to press me on this subject _again_.” 

She gazed at him, her dark, almond eyes glinting eagerly however much she acted like did not want to have this argument again. The game was well and truly set now, and Thom could not be sure whether he wanted to win or lose. Seated beside him, a full head lower, Moiraine still managed to look down her nose at him, amusement and irritation in equal measure radiating from her. A small smirk teased at the corner of her full lips. Sitting there primly with her tea, marshalling her counterarguments in her mind, she looked like a scholarly lioness getting ready to move in for the intellectual kill. 

Light, he wanted her.

“I’m happy to do that, but it’s only going to drag out your eventual loss,” he retorted, setting her up to pounce. A scholarly debate seemed like the kind of foreplay she’d be into, but only with a worthy opponent. When they travelled the Caemlyn Road after Baerlon, he had not missed how she gravitated to his intellectual companionship after long days corralling a gaggle of teenage bumpkins and her stone-faced jock of a bodyguard. Thom may have been a simple gleeman for fifteen years, but he had been a Master Bard for thirty years before that, with an education to rival Moiraine’s own, which she had been quick to sniff out. As a classically-trained Bard, then, he had not been merely a consumer of literature, but a producer, expanding the body of work of his discipline, defining its very shape and nature. He did not have opinions on the craft, he had a lifetime of finely-tuned experience and practice. True, he had brought this up expressly to bother her, but he meant what he said on the subject. 

His deep voice grew soft and resonant as he spoke of his field, saying, “Stories push the limits of the human imagination, after all. They’re how we see beyond our own limitations, beyond what we think is possible, beyond the real world. Beyond history.” 

She thoughtfully rested her forearms on the table. He thought her fingers seemed a little tight around her teacup. Moiraine was many things--noblewoman, Aes Sedai, adviser to the Dragon Reborn, and by some accounts Thom had heard, an excellent fisher-- but fundamentally, she was exactly as she had first introduced herself in the Two Rivers: a student of history. That was the framework through which she understood the world and her purpose in it. She fixated first and foremost on the big picture, contextualizing every person and event as a thread occuring within the tapestry of the great Pattern, the Lace of Ages. The first time he had met her, she had even sidelined the gleeman to entrance an entire village with her own powerful story of their past. Even at this moment, she sat elbow-deep in historical documents all over her work table, trying to make sense of the present. He had fun telling her it didn’t always matter.

She replied, as she had always replied before, “Stories are told by real people to real audiences. They do not emerge from a vacuum, and they are not crafted to be delivered into one. They emerge out of the context of a specific time and place in the Pattern. If they speak to the limits of the imagination of their listeners, those limits and those listeners have been set by their particular weave within the Pattern.” 

He leaned his forearms on the table now as well, his large hands resting close to her small ones. True, he had only dredged this discussion back up to get a rise out of her, but her coldly pragmatic take on stories as mere tools for understanding history did get under his skin. He pressed on. “Stories build entire realms of the hypothetical, the abstract. History ties us to the real. Stories help us escape it.” 

“Even fantastical stories are shaped by the Pattern, by filling in the empty spaces in an open weave,” she replied, her cool voice tinged with sharpness. “The shape of those spaces still hinges upon the shape of the Pattern itself. And if stories resonate with listeners, it is because they have been spun from familiar threads. Stories can only be woven from the threads the storyteller is embedded within.” 

She turned to face him directly then, her intense eyes glowing like polished river stones. Her piercing glances could be very forceful, but Thom refused to budge. He had leaned forward as he emphasized his own arguments; their faces were not close, but they were not very far apart--close enough to make out pale little freckles on her porcelain cheekbones that he had never noticed before. Thom swallowed. 

She continued firmly, as if the case were closed, “Nothing exists outside of the Pattern. Even stories. Especially stories.” 

She sounded so confident, he couldn’t wait to burst her bubble.

“Then it looks like we’re just going to have to agree to disagree, my dear,” he said with a smile, tossing out the term of endearment to see how she reacted. 

She smiled, a little too sweetly. “I will not. You intend to negotiate my silence in the face of your wrongness. I do not accede to your terms. I believe I will convince you yet.” 

Oh she did, did she? Light, the confidence of this woman. Per the Three Oaths, she really believed she could change his mind on the discipline he had not only devoted his life to the study and practice of, but to the very creation and advancement of as well. Well if anyone could, it would be her. If it really bothered her, maybe he would let her try persuading him for awhile longer. Blue Sisters could be very persistent, after all. Maybe he could spare a few months in Tear to let her work on him. 

He laughed, his voice melodic and warm, and his eyes glowed with mirth, making smile-line creases in his worn face that she had fondly come to memorize. 

“Then you’re only encouraging me to be stubborn,” he warned her. 

Moiraine let her smile bloom into a soft laugh in return, his amusement infectious, his stubbornness a little exasperating. For her part, she barely recognized this flirtatious forwardness in herself. In Cairhien, when a woman tried to put a man in his place, that place was usually her bed. But when she pressed him on a subject, he pressed her right back, not out of ignorance, but out of an intellect honed by decades of experience. There was something intriguing about a man bold enough to treat her so, a man who could see her for all that she was and still not be afraid. The utter unfamiliarity of that piqued an almost scientific curiosity in her. 

She vacillated; she knew better than to open this box right now but she could not help wanting to. She feared that what she wanted and what the Pattern demanded of her were two different things. But he had called her “dear” and it took a brief rosebud thought exercise to stop overanalyzing what it meant. And then it took another round of the rosebud exercise to stop overanalyzing what _that_ meant. 

Casually, as they still laughed together, Thom moved his hand to close the gap between them, covering her hand with his and giving it a little squeeze, a gentle, familiar gesture. No one had the temerity to reach through her icy aura to touch her, and certainly not so easily, so knowingly. No one touched her so tenderly. 

He had picked up on all of her hints. She willed the color to recede from her cheeks. 

Rising to put some space between them, she replied, “You have never needed my encouragement to be stubborn. You have always done exactly as you wanted.” 

Her dark eyes fixed him in one of those sideways looks, brow arched as if she already knew what he wanted. Inside, her stomach fluttered like she was some fool girl. She could not be sure it was the best plan to light the fuse on whatever was developing between them right now-- the Karaethon Cycle held no clues for this little swirl of the Pattern--but experience had taught her to trust her instincts.

“Is that so?” he asked lightly, but his observant eyes studied her smooth face carefully. She suspected they were coming to a mutual understanding. 

She wanted him to make the first move, but she could prompt him into making it. She kept herself so guarded that even people without prejudice against Aes Sedai could not recognize genuine honesty in her when she offered it, and she did not want him to think her overtures some kind of Aes Sedai ruse. But if _he_ came to _her_ , he could make no claim that she had designs on him. 

Following her lead, he rose from the table, relaxed but deliberate, the breeze ruffling his patchwork cloak around him and carrying the crisp scent of rain over the Sea of Storms. He had dispensed with the humbling stoop he used as part of his gleeman persona, standing tall and slim at his full height. She had risen from the table to give herself space for her blush to recede, putting the heavy table between them like a moat, but now he skirted her defenses, rounding the table with a courtly grace, long fingers trailing idly along the edge. 

Hovering by the doorway, she willed herself to stay put as he calmly approached her, stopping to stand close enough for the edges of his cloak to brush her skirts when the gentle wind stirred. Tilting her chin, she forced herself to look all the way up into his eyes, a slowburn smile kindling on her lips when she found there all the anticipation and apprehension and excitement she knew her own must convey. Not two weeks gone, she had burned a Forsaken out of existence by balefire without batting an eyelash; she could think of no reason to be so nervous now. She chose her words carefully. “In Cairhien, there is an old saying: ‘take what you want, and pay for it.’”

“Oh, I started paying before I even took it,” he replied gruffly, and then he was slamming the door shut behind her and pressing her against the hard mahogany and cold iron bolts, his hands in her hair, his thigh pressing between hers through blue silk, crushing his lips against hers. 

Light! The man could kiss. Her toes curled in her slippers. One of Andor’s most famous lovers was kissing her, the Grey Fox was kissing her, and kissing her senseless. She craned her neck to meet his lips even as he stooped to meet hers, his fervor enveloping and overtaking her like a wave. Her hands, which had been frozen by her sides in surprise, thawed at last, twining up his arms and around his neck, his form lean but hard under thin cotton. Nothing short of the One Power could stop him from doing as he pleased with her, and something about that thrilled in the back of her mind. His capable hands tightened in her silken hair, exquisitely alternating between gentle caresses and rough handling. 

His forehead pressed to hers as they paused to catch their breath, his hands taking their time finding their way down to her waist. 

“I want you,” he whispered hoarsely. 

“Then take me,” she ordered him breathlessly, her tense body becoming pliant like wax in the warm press of his hands. Gripping her waist and thigh, he lifted and spun her in one fluid motion, setting her down on the tabletop in a move perfected during his Grey Fox days. With one hand still on her waist, he swept his other hand roughly across the tabletop to clear a space for her back. 

“ _Not_ on the rare books,” she commanded sharply, all hard edges once again as she wriggled out of his arms and straightened. Righting the pile of rare books that had begun tumbling sideways, she caressed their aged spines with a tenderness she had not shown to his. 

Satisfied with the state of the archival materials, she settled back where he had deposited her, her expression softening as if only just remembering what they had been in the middle of. She held his face in her hands and said with a little wry smile, “Or the manuscripts. The scrolls. Or the folios. _Perhaps_ on the more recent publications.”

Laughing gently at his own reprehensible boorishness, he smoothed a ringleted strand of hair from her forehead, cupping her face with a surprising tenderness for someone who was almost certainly trying to manipulate her somehow.

“Very well then,” he replied, “I won’t have you on anything published before 949 if that suits you.”

And with that, he wrapped his strong arms around her and kissed her into a daze. 

Well, the Wheel was certainly weaving as it willed. Melting into his embrace felt like surrendering to saidar, a rush of sweetness that ached. Moiraine could not remember the last time she had been touched so lovingly, and now she realized that she craved it. She had walled off this entire part of herself to focus on her mission. The one-time partners she took on her travels-- shirking bath maids who warmed chilly inn beds or lonely merchants who relieved the tedium of long journeys-- had never intrigued her or matched her wits. She flooded with warmth at his touch, yet still, she hesitated. Her feelings were irrelevant. Her plan had been to firmly set him aside for later, as one saved dessert for after one’s vegetables, if the Last Battle could be compared to vegetables. 

But he was here, before her, right now, being clever, being warm. She did not know what endgame he envisioned for this encounter, or if he saw any contradiction in the fact that they spent their days maneuvering against each other politically, but she reasoned that she could work on two projects at once. If the Pattern insisted on tying his thread around hers right now, then who was she to resist? 

Thom could feel her leaning into each caress as he slid one hand up her pale throat and the other into her dark hair, but he wanted to hear the words from her. He knew her well enough to know that she was probably wondering at this precise moment what his endgame was. Truth be told, he had the same question. He did not have a clear long term strategy here, but his short term strategy was straightforward enough-- not that she would ever believe he had no ulterior motives. 

...Unless it was all her idea from here on out. Unless she was the one asking him. Besides, it was the oldest showman’s trick in the book: always leave them wanting more. He wanted to make her say that she wanted more. And he wanted her to be begging before he was done.

With his voice soft and low by her ear, he reached down to grip the edges of her hem in his hands and asked, “Shall I continue?”

She paused a second to think, trying to keep herself safely one step--or several--ahead. Usually, possibilities stretched out before her like all the possible moves on a stones board, but the complete set eluded her now with Thom artfully nibbling on her earlobe. She could only see limited moves, limited outcomes. Saying yes; waking in his arms tomorrow. The effect he was having on her was almost a little embarrassing as her strict self-control started to slip, but his teasing caresses traced her skin until it hummed with the need for more. She could enjoy this and still deal with whatever unforeseen consequences came later. The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills after all…

“Yes,” she replied softly, and he ran his hands slowly up her trim ankles and toned calves and thighs, sliding her long skirts up over her knees accordingly. 

For his part, Thom’s imagination saw him taking her right here on this table. Let her concentrate on her studies tomorrow with those memories etched into this marble tabletop, let her keep her face serene serving tea to Elayne on the very spot her bare behind would have been only mere hours before. Much as the thought appealed to him, he suspected she would prefer finer accommodations. Besides, he wanted every activity this evening to come at her own suggestion, not his. He would wait and see what kind of move she made. 

Of course, he felt free to encourage certain lines of thinking. He trailed his fingers just inside the neckline of her dress, caressing her shoulders and across her back, his fingertips leaving tingling trails like Aludra’s sparklers would leave in the air. He lingered, just a moment, at the top button of her gown, stroking it thoughtfully a moment before moving on. 

At this point, Moiraine felt that abandoning that button was just cruel. Frankly, with the way the heat was building inside her, she would have been content to defile the table, but her apartments in the Stone, suitable for a noblewoman, beckoned with their crackling fireplace, locking door, soundproof stone walls, and large, luxurious bed. It was only a few steps down the hallway.

Confident he would be amenable to her suggestion, she said as huskily as her chiming voice could manage, “My apartments are only the next door down. Come to bed with me.”

Well, she had tried to sound sultry, but there was little that was soft or slow or warm about her; seduction truly was not her forte. If her words demanded, her eyes persuaded, communicating all her urgency and want and need. Thom smiled, forming endearing little crinkles in the corners of his eyes as he said, “For the sake of the rare books, I will come to bed with you. Lead the way.”

She opened the door slowly and peered out, ensuring the corridor was empty. Her discretion was not borne of modesty, but of prudence: with all of the political maneuvering in Tear, it would not do for two of Rand’s staunchest supporters to be caught together, alone, at night. It would open up too many ways to meddle. Plus, some matters just needed to stay between two people. She took a moment to mask her bond with Lan. She had certainly felt her share of voyeuristically enjoyable sensations from him since he--and Nynaeve--had settled in Tear, but she did not have to share _everything_ with him. 

Satisfied that the coast was clear, she glanced at Thom over her shoulder, took him by the hand, and led him to her rooms. He took the opportunity to appreciate the view before him. He was fairly certain he could bounce a Tar Valon silver mark off of that pleasingly round posterior. Her smooth and authoritative gait may not have actively accentuated her charms, but neither could it possibly conceal them. He hummed his appreciation, which earned him a scandalized glare from over her shoulder. The woman was leading him by the hand to her quarters to do unspeakable things with him and he wasn’t allowed to ogle even a little, while they were alone? Well, he didn’t make the rules. 

Reaching the door, she paused for a moment. Thom assumed she channeled it unlocked for it immediately swung open for her. She strode in and made her way through the antechamber into the spacious bedchamber, dragging him behind her with a surprisingly strong grip. 

Before she could turn around to face him, the glowing coals in the granite fireplace roared to life at the same time as the flames of a dozen pillar candles placed throughout the room, illuminating the chamber with a sensuous, undulating glow. As the room lit up, a vigorous gust of wind billowed through the open bay window, ruffling the sheets and filling the room with the sharp, fresh scent of a spring storm. The first low rumbles of thunder rolled over the sound of the waves lapping against the foundation of the Stone. Overall, he found the effect so arousing and energizing he half-wondered if she had customized it herself. Had she--could she do all that? He didn’t want to think about it. 

She turned to face him; her large, dark eyes peering up into his face. Light. Those expressive eyes filled deep with whatever emotion she wanted to convey--usually steely determination to make men do as she wanted--but now, the affection and desire simmering in their depths drew him in until he thought he would drown. She ran her small hands up his chest, closing her eyes once again and leaning up to kiss him, rosy lips parted slightly. When her dominating presence filled a room, it was easy to forget how small she really was until he was looking directly down at her. Thom let her get achingly close, but with their height difference, this was a game he would always win. He let her strain for another moment, keeping her on her toes before twining his hands in her hair and slowly bending down, just to tease her with a mere brush of his lips on hers before pulling away again. He only gave the deep kiss he had denied her when she grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him to her. 

It was no mere toying. Denying Moiraine a thing she wanted only made her fight all the harder. Sure enough, when they broke apart, she turned her back to him, sweeping her long hair over to one side and fixing him with a sideways look over her shoulder, suggestive and inviting. That top button gleamed in the firelight as he deftly unfastened it at last, the neckline of the dress slackening to reveal her smooth, pale back. She let the garment slip down her arms and onto the floor in a silken puddle around her, revealing a gossamer of a shift that left almost nothing to Thom’s imagination. She turned to face him again, filling in even more gaps in his imagination.

The southern city of Tear boasted a warm, tropical climate requiring light, breathable layers, which her shift, made entirely of clinging, dark blue open-weave lace--Domani, if Thom weren’t mistaken-- handily provided. A coastal city, the stiff breeze off the ocean at night cooled the air significantly, prompting her nipples to strain against the delicate lace despite the roaring fire. The straps of her shift, two thin ones on each side, already rested at the edge of her shoulders, looking like the next light breeze might push them the rest of the way down. Thom slipped off one side, then the other, sliding the figure-hugging shift down, her full breasts springing free, sliding it over her hips until it joined her dress on the floor. Her ivory skin glowed in the flickering firelight, her dark, wavy hair grazing her breasts. Decades of horseback-riding had sculpted her form, her taut stomach, rounded hips, and toned legs giving her soft skin the appearance of silk over steel. She stepped out of her slippers and the puddle of her clothing. 

Thom stared almost reverently, caressing her figure with his gaze. It was as if the Creator had made her to Thom’s own specifications. If this were some scheme to sink her Aes Sedai hooks into him…well, there were worse ways to have an Aes Sedai tie a string to a man. She could tie his string right to the headboard.

He blinked and she was already untucking his shirt. He hastened to assist her in her efforts, removing his gleeman’s cloak in the simplest, most sensible move he had ever utilized. Together, they made quick work of his shirt, breeches, boots, and finally, his plain woolen socks, with eight knives of various shapes and sizes in a row beside their two piles of clothing. He didn’t have to carry as many when he was staying inside the Stone.

Moiraine was appraising him with an almost unreadable face as he straightened from setting down the last knife, only her sparkling eyes giving a hint that she admired what she saw. Thom may not have been a young man anymore, but the lithe, toned form of his youth had only been tempered and seasoned by time. Athletic and accustomed to hard travel, he maintained a trim shape, with a slim waist and hips and strapping shoulders. About a hand shorter than Lan, Thom could still rest his chin easily on the top of Moiraine’s head. His long legs, which gave him most of his height, remained well-turned despite his injured knee, and she could tell he had practiced standing in poses that masked the fact that he could no longer put his full weight on it comfortably. His full head of white hair, longer on the top than the sides, hung rakishly over one roguishly arched eyebrow. His long mustaches curled into a short but rugged beard, which she had noticed with appreciation had been kept more neatly trimmed and groomed since settling in Tear. Careful not to stare, her eyes could not help but note that his member did indeed appear commensurate with all the tavern-room boasting to barmaids that she had written off as bombast. His gorgeous eyes, deep turquoise, watched her as she regarded him. The way he looked at her—hungry, fierce, adoring—made her breath catch. 

For a moment, they simply explored each other’s bodies, soft, inquisitive touches of fingertips and lips on shy skin, blank maps filling in, the harsh plane of an old shoulder blade, the smooth underside of a small wrist. The air hung heavy as the storm rolled in, and they felt the weight of the moment as those first confused stirrings of attraction on the Caemlyn Road culminated in this deeper desire, pulling like a riptide toward each other and against their better judgment. 

Lying almost close enough to touch by the fire on the road from Baerlon, across the distance in royal Shienaran apartments and Cairhienin inn rooms, they had circled each other and grown angry and confused and intrigued in turn with each other. They had gone over a year without seeing each other. In Tear, they had each waited for the other to make their tentative first move, giving themselves plausible deniability in the coming weeks of political scheming, but also plausible deniability to the truth of their feelings. So much remained so uncertain, but they could have this, tonight. They could have each other for tonight. 

Their touches became bolder, more insistent, teeth and nails on awakening skin, until in one fluid motion, he was carrying Moiraine in his arms to the bed. Literally sweeping her off her feet? Now this was just ridiculous. She supposed Thom could not help himself. He was an old romantic and a bit of a ham to boot; she could not expect him to restrict his grand flourishes to the common room. 

He loped over to the bed as smoothly as he could despite his bad knee--she would have to Heal it anyway for his own good, she thought, if he would not willingly accept the Healing she periodically offered. Gently, he lay her down on the four poster bed of dark wood carved with thistles, sheer white curtains parted to reveal the plush down mattress, cozy woolen blankets, and dark Illianer cotton sheets. Much better than a bunk in the servants’ quarters or a marble table. 

He slid in beside her and they fell together like two puzzle pieces, arms encircling, legs intertwining. After a time, their kisses slowed, and Thom gently pulled away from her lips. Ever the consummate gentleman, he lowered himself down until he was trailing kisses down her hip bone, toward the inside of her thigh. She shifted, opening her legs to invite him in. Thom hooked her leg over his shoulder, gripping her toned thighs in his hands, bringing his mouth so close to her lower lips that his warm breath was enough to make her twitch lightly.

He stole a glance up at her, revelling in the sight before him. She lay on her back, eyes closed, arms resting above her head, wholly open to him. During the day, her beauty had a cool edge, like ice crystals sparkling in sunlight. Now, that frozen beauty had thawed, like spring buds emerging from frost, her snowy skin flushed and her rigid posture melted soft. 

He felt himself growing harder, but that would just have to wait. Her body, taut as a harp string, anticipated his approaching touch. But he was not about to let her forget whose idea this was.

“Shall I continue?” he asked, his lips barely brushing the tender skin of her sex as he spoke, denying her the more robust touch she expected, if he read the involuntary twitch of her hips toward him correctly.

“Please,” she responded as if granting permission, but Thom did not miss the note of pleading it contained. Running his own private experiment, he took careful mental notes to watch the process by which her serenity melted away into abandon.

“Well,” he replied, the timbre of his voice rich and warm, “only because you are so accustomed to having your own way. Princess.”

With that, his lips finally gave her the soft, firm pressure she wanted between her legs, if only to head off the protest to the undesired title he knew was blooming on her lips (truly it was the inaccuracy that bothered her, technically she was a duchess...). Instead, she moaned as the tip of his tongue found her most sensitive spot, apparently deciding the issue was not worth quibbling over. He had expected her to come around; decades of flute-playing enabled him to perfect the subtlest tonguing and fingering techniques, and he knew how to draw exquisite sounds from the most stubborn of instruments.

Indeed, he played her body like his treasured gold-and-silver-chased flute, with energy and devotion, his lips just so, his dexterous fingers working expertly, just the right amount of pressure applied in just the right places, until her body hummed and vibrated with pleasure. Her hands had gone from resting over her head to gripping the carved headboard as her hips rocked against his tongue. The increasingly uninhibited sounds she made were music to his ears.

Gradually, he softened his motions and pulled away slightly, leaving little kisses on her thigh, briefly slowing his tempo to make his ministrations more intense when he resumed. She brought a hand down to run through his hair and inhaled deeply. He paused. 

“Thom…” she sighed, the bell-like chime of her voice warming up. “Thom, I want you to take me.” 

Ah, the best statements from Aes Sedai were the ones stated plain and true. 

She tightened her grip in his hair and he pulled himself up and over her, keeping his body between her legs. He brought his face close to hers, trailing his rough palm across her breasts, kneading her with his calloused fingers. Her eyes, dark and dreamy, met his glittering blue ones, and they both knew that, as usual, she was about to get exactly what she wanted. She may have lost herself with his head between her legs, but she had recollected herself enough to reassert with some measure of her customary entitlement, “I want you to take me right now.”

With a touch of cockiness that would have been infuriating in any other context, he replied, “Oh, I fully intend to have you right now.”

Her placid expression did not change, but her eyes lit up with anticipation as he continued, his sonorous voice a low rumble. “And I’m going to make sure you get everything you deserve.”

His nimble fingers found her entrance and slipped inside, her tranquility slipping as her breath quickened and her eyes half closed. Weaves of Water could not have made her more wet. He explained as he crooked his fingers inside her, “You see, I’ve had quite the fair share of adventures thanks to our little detour in the Two Rivers... and I’ve had a long, _long_ time to plan exactly how to repay you.”

“In that case, Thom Merrilin,” she replied with a satisfied smile, easing into his touch and settling deeper into the bedclothes, “I have come to collect.”

With that, he trailed the head of his hard cock along her lower lips until it reached her entrance, silky slick and ready for him. He pushed inside, where she was delectably warm and tight, his own composure cracking as he lost himself in her with a groan. He thrust deep inside her, sliding home, and they moaned with the mutual satisfaction of delayed gratification blessedly attained. Her wetness, her warmth enveloped him, her ribbed muscles tightening around him as he filled her, and they settled into one another. He placed a little more of his weight on his good knee, mentally cursing the way his injury hampered his technique, then laced his fingers through hers and pushed her hands above her head. Her eyes, warm and smoky, drew him in and held him as surely as he held her, her hair wild across the pillow as she rocked beneath him.

Thom’s breath caught; his words, which normally he had aplenty, evaporated from his throat. All thoughts of artifice, of toying with her further, lay abandoned and forgotten across the floor with their clothing. Satisfaction flitted through his mind as he noted that her serenity, too, had been cast off and discarded like her dress as she let go and lost herself in the pleasure she took from him. 

He brought one hand down to cradle her face as he kissed her deeply, stroking her flushed cheek with his thumb and crushing her soft lips to his in a smoldering kiss, his cock still buried deep inside her. She tightened all around him and he nestled his face in her neck and hair, intoxicated by the way the natural scent of her creamy skin mingled with the earthy sweetness of her rose petal soap. She moaned his name and he melted. 

Sliding his rough hands under her smooth back, he rolled, pulling her slight form on top of him. She moved with him, riding him without missing a beat, arching her back and tilting her head to shake out unruly waves of dark hair. Her luminous skin glowed in the soft light of the candles and the sharp flashes of lightning, her sighs filling the air between rolls of thunder. He reached up, trailing his thumb across her lips, his fingers across her cheek, down her throat, over her flushed breasts. Practiced fingers found the throbbing spot between her thighs. The look she gave him when her dark eyes flickered open made him glad he was already lying down. 

Light, this woman was incredible. As often as Thom had imagined lying with her, actually being with her at last felt surreal. He had smothered his grief for Dena in meaningless encounters across the Westlands, in taverns and haylofts and country estates, but it was different with Moiraine. Since the day he first laid eyes on her in that backwater, he had known he had better stay away, and his fool response had been to follow her instead. She captivated him-- that brilliant mind-- housed in this luscious body--were she not Aes Sedai, he would have believed her too good to be true. If he worried he had been utterly ensnared by her this morning, he felt even more hopeless now. Fortunately, his performances did tend to elicit shouts for an encore. 

As Thom gave all of himself over to her, Moiraine embraced the Source, flooding her with euphoric sweetness and heightening every sensation. A number of weaves to make Thom’s experience more interesting flitted through her mind. She would have to suggest a few when next they were clothed and see if he were interested.

Glowing softly with saidar as it filled her, she surrendered to the nectar and joy and life of it, succumbing to the wave of rapturous feeling as it washed over her. The soft touch of the Illianer sheets sent tingling waves roiling across her skin. The heat of the fire consumed her as the briny storm wind pebbled her skin wherever it touched, the tension between competing sensations feeling glorious. 

Brimming with saidar, she wanted to be closer to him, for their bodies to be pressed together again. From her perch on top of him, she leaned forward until their lips met, her hands twining into his silvery hair and his strong arms pulling her closer, the heat of her skin on his invigorating. 

She twisted until they both lay on their sides, her legs wrapped around him, their arms wrapped around each other, faces close. Tangled in the sheets, saidar pulsing through her, Thom pounding her senseless, she could dimly hear her own voice, crying yes, _yes_ , like some terribly cliche character from _Hearts of Flame_ , the words wrenched from her lips by the blossoming heat between her legs. Light, who was this man who could make her feel so? The extensive intelligence file she had amassed on him in her mind had done little to prepare her for this. When she gave him nothing but her cold exterior shell, he had cracked her open like an egg, her most private self spilling out for him. 

She breathed in his scent—heady and masculine, smoky tabac and crisp, clean soap. His deep moans clouded her mind and the comforting weight of his body held her fast. His long thrusts filled her and she constricted around him as he pressed her into the goose down mattress, each deep stroke coming just far enough apart to drive her wild for want of more. Her mind--tormented by months wracked with thinking and overthinking--blanked at last, her ruminations overridden by the pleasure wracking her body. The maelstrom of feeling, enhanced by saidar, overwhelmed her and she felt herself get closer to climax. She caressed his face tenderly before grabbing a fistful of his hair as she almost came.

He felt her intensify, flexing his hips to enjoy every inch of her, hungry, desperate, until he thrust so deep that his hips met hers. Deep inside her, his strokes came long and quick. She pulled him in, her arms wrapped around him, nails leaving red trails down his back, her legs straining to open even wider for him as her hips pulsed to meet his stroke for stroke. Her sharp cries gave a counterpoint to his low moans as they both shook, consumed in raw pleasure, in each other’s bodies, and they helplessly tumbled over the edge together at last.

For long moments, they did not budge, Moiraine wrapped around Thom as their breathing slowed, their faces close and their eyes closed, each savoring the little aftershocks that echoed their long moment of pleasure. Coiled muscles loosened, breath returned to normal, and the intense heat cooled from their skin before Thom slid away from her with a light kiss. Slowly, languorously, they both rose to wash up in the attached washroom, Thom at the washbasin and Moiraine beside him channeling Water and Air. There was something comfortable in doing such a mundane task together. Moiraine wore a small smile even though she had not yet made eye contact with him again. She could have schooled her face to stillness if she had chosen to do so; there was simply no need to conceal her contentment, that was all.

Moiraine finished washing up and slid back into bed. She lay on her side, facing Thom, holding the blankets open invitingly.

“You should sleep here tonight. Stay with me,” she said, her kesiera still adorably askew from their activities.

Still doling out commands, was she? Well, perhaps this one he wouldn’t mind so much. She looked radiant, queenly, even clad in the Light with a crooked kesiera before him. 

“As my lady commands,” he replied, eyes full with mirth as he gave a small bow, graceful even dressed as he was on the day the Creator had made him. She laughed softly as he slid into bed beside her, lying on his back as she draped the covers over them both. She hooked one leg around him, wrapping an arm across his chest and nestling her face into his neck. She felt a sudden surge of affection for him, this man who had opened himself to her completely, whose keen perceptions understood her more deeply than anyone save the man she was bonded to, and who could make her laugh, besides.

She almost mentioned that he would need to be up early and back in his own quarters before the servants rose, but she knew he would already have thought of it without her needing to explain. What an absolute pleasure and relief, dealing with someone competent, whom she could--within strictly-defined parameters-- trust. She breathed a deep sigh as she settled into his calming embrace and closed her eyes. The soft rain poured outside the window as she began to drift off.

She almost felt remorse for how quick to judgment she had been toward Rand and Elayne’s not-so-subtle displays of affection within the hallways of the Stone. Or Perrin and Faile’s. Or Lan and Nynaeve’s subtler ones. Almost. There was so much work to be done to prepare for the Last Battle. She had wondered if _anyone_ were focusing properly on the task at hand around here, or if they were all just gazing at each other like mooncalves while she researched and plotted all day for Rand. But, she assured herself, this encounter was different. What she did in her spare time was no one’s business-- it was not as if she were shirking her duties. And she really did need to clear her mind in order to do her best work tomorrow. And coherent thoughts seemed to slide away with Thom’s comforting arms around her and sleep coming.

Thom rested his cheek against the top of her head. What an interesting turn of events this evening had unfolded into. Even after it had become clear what direction things were headed, he had still expected more of a bit of slap and tickle, something fun to pass the time. Instead, this had felt more intimate. Thom also noticed that she had never broken a sweat. He knew Aes Sedai did not perspire, and had seen her endure numerous stressful trials without doing so, but he had been fairly convinced he could make her sweat. Ah, well. Next time, then.

He was not sure what he wanted out of this arrangement, but he knew he could not let himself get drawn in too far. No entanglements, he firmly reminded himself. He did not think he could survive another heartache after Dena, and as long as he played the Great Game, he certainly could not guarantee that any love interest of his would survive either. Moiraine could take care of herself, and her Warder could take care of her too, but there was no need to put her safety at a greater risk by openly associating with her. He wrapped his arms tighter around her and gave her a squeeze. Whatever they did behind closed doors couldn’t hurt though... Entwined, he followed her off into a deep sleep, worn out by their vigorous activities and an abiding contentment that neither had felt in a long time. 

Thom woke before the sun the next morning, his body clock attuned to waking early in the servants’ quarters. Moiraine’s head still rested on his shoulder, and she curled tightly around him, sleeping soundly. Coals continued to burn on the hearth, the bed was toasty, and her smooth skin felt warm against his. The cold breeze blowing in through the window, rustling the sheer bed curtains, did not encourage Thom to get up. How was he supposed to leave this? Then again, strands of her hair had fallen across his face and gotten hung up on his mustache, tickling the end of his nose. He tried to convince himself it was a good enough reason to move.

Kissing the top of her head softly, Thom gently disengaged himself from her. He tried not to wake her, but she stirred as he rose from the bed, making such a contented little sound he almost hopped right back in. He forced himself to walk over toward his clothes, and Moiraine’s eyes followed him, appraising and appreciative. She had not been able to analyze this angle of him last night and there were new details to memorize.

“Good morning, Thom Merrilin,” she said, her chin in her hand as she lay on her side and regarded him from her spot in the bed. Still half asleep, she looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes and her dark hair tumbled around her face in a truly stunning example of bedhead.

“Good morning, Moiraine Sedai,” he replied, grinning. He could make himself stop grinning, but what was the point? A man concealed a grin when a woman didn’t know what it was about, and she knew exactly what he had to grin about. He picked his way through the piles of their clothes and began dressing, tucking in knives here and there along the way. He could feel her mentally noting each one. Finally, he settled his gleeman’s cloak around his shoulders and disappeared into the washroom. 

As he shut the door, Moiraine’s insides flooded with warmth, quickly followed by apprehension. She had intended to get a little more sleep, but her mind had started whirring and she could not shut it off. The sun was rising; back to scheming. She knew that Thom had an angle for helping Rand, though she could not yet be certain that Thom knew that she knew. Wearily, she wondered what could make him see the valuable role she already played for Rand, without needing _assistance_ from other practitioners of Daes Dae’mar, however well-intentioned they might be. Moiraine feared she would have to take a more direct approach toward encouraging him to back off of Rand, which she preferred not to have to do.

Up through the tangle of Daes Dae’mar bubbled another thought-- just a flash of an image-- of the two of them, together and safe, after the Last Battle. The thought hurt and she quickly banished it. She did not permit herself such little luxuries as imagining a future for herself. As well wish for saidin to be cleansed as wish for things to be any other way. Besides, she would never be the type of woman to moon after some man, even if that man were her future husband. Although the memory of what it felt like in his arms was...something she would enjoy repeating if he were amenable. She reasoned that the probability was high in her favor.

When Thom re-emerged, Moiraine had nestled back down in the blankets, occupying the warm spot he had left behind, looking so little in the big bed. She smiled at him sleepily, her hair in untamed tendrils around her face. Thom had seen her look beautiful and terrifying and mysterious, but he had never seen her look so-- cute. It was a little disarming. 

She slid a hand out from under the blankets to squeeze his and said with a soft smile, “Perhaps we will enjoy another,” she paused, choosing her words carefully, “cup of tea tonight?” 

His eyes twinkled as he replied, “I expect it to be served hot on the table as usual, my dear.”

Her face remained smooth but her eyes widened. Light, he brought out the siege engines for this round of Daes Palatu’mar. She needed something clever, and saucy, and quick if she were going to win. She parried with, “Only if you are not off with Mat playing games tonight instead. You do have quite the set of stones, after all.”  
Thom’s grin did not budge, but a quick twitch of his eyebrow conceded the point to Moiraine. 

Yes, she thought, fixing him with a self-satisfied smirk she could have contained if she really wanted to. It worked on _three_ levels: literal playing stones, a metaphorical reference to his daring nerve, and something altogether a little more… anatomically suggestive, all hiding under the plausible deniability of a simple statement about a game. And _that_ was how a Cairhienin won at Daes Palatu’mar.

“Checkmate,” he replied simply as if conceding. But the deadly beauty of the retort immediately crashed down on her. The word “checkmate” was itself a reference to stones, which somehow meant that what appeared to be his admission of defeat actually worked as the winning move of the Word Game. With the realization dawning on her, she had paused too long to reasonably make a rejoining sally. She had lost. 

She never lost at Daes Palatu’mar. 

Incredulous dark eyes swiveled up to meet his, which glinted with a hint of smug amusement that she would very much have liked to get rid of by any means necessary. Even if, as she had to begrudgingly admit, he had actually earned it. 

“I’ll tell you the terms of my victory tonight,” Thom said with a salacious eyebrow waggle. He lightly tapped the tip of her small nose with his index finger before turning with a rage-inducing flourish of his cloak and walking to the door. He started counting down the hours to tea as he left, unable to wipe the grin off his face as he made his way down the hallway. 

Moiraine gazed at the door long after Thom had shut it, part giddy and part stunned. It took a long moment of smoothing the bedclothes before she settled her face back to perfect calmness, but her mind was another matter. She did not understand how she could still find pleasure in losing, yet the foreign sensation of being outwitted, and the intriguing prospect of submitting to his terms tonight, reignited the curiosity he sparked in her. 

Burn the man. Now she would spend all day trying not to deduce what those terms might be as she pored over her books. As long as the sun was up, her focus must be on her work. But a man who could flawlessly commit regicide _and_ best her at word play? That kind of impressive skill just made her tick. Her desire to uncover more about him was like an itch between her shoulder blades; she seldom struggled like this to discipline her thoughts and focus. 

Perhaps if last night’s experience became less novel and more commonplace, it would be less distracting. 

Yes. She would put this theory to Thom tonight.


End file.
